Dangerous As Sin

by Alix Rickloff

  Shit. Was he losing his mind? The world stood at the brink, and all he wanted was to drag up her skirts, push her back against the wall, and drive himself into her, find for a brief moment the bliss he’d experienced last night in her arms.

  With forced deliberation, he let her go before he made a fool out of himself. “Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said.

  Even as lust died away, another emotion sprang to life. The vicious creature—the part of him who’d hunted and killed and answered only to Sin—uncurled from its place in the darkest corners of his heart. Licked at Cam’s soul. He pushed it down. Locked it away with ruthless finality. He’d not lose himself to the inhuman blood-thrill. Not again. Not even to stop Doran.

  Morgan broke into his thoughts. Drowned out the slithery voice of savage temptation. “If we don’t find Doran soon, he’ll unlock the Morkoth magic. Create his army of Undying. And if we can’t stop him, Andraste and the Fey will. The mortal world will become a battleground.”

  His voice was firm. Final. “Trust me. It won’t get that far. I won’t let it. All right?”

  Their eyes met. The heat in her gaze locking on to the ice-cold freeze of his own. “I trust you.”

  Her words stunned him and terrified him and dropped his heart into his boots.

  She trusted him? Was she insane? He didn’t even trust himself. He was as strung out and off-balance as he’d been since the days of Toulouse. It wouldn’t take much to send him tumbling.

  He just prayed he wasn’t setting them both up for the fall of the century.

  Chapter 18

  Morgan slowed, the scream of mage energy ripping through her, every nerve taut, every sense sizzling and alive.

  “The source of the power is near.”

  She scanned the area. Rows of long, brick warehouses and offices, streets lined with dingy shop fronts, tenements, and low, dirty, seamen’s cottages. Beyond the dock’s high walls, the wharf stood congested with ships in various stages of loading or unloading. Lighters, barges, and colliers threading their way between the schooners and East Indiamen. Voices raised in Flemish, French, Italian, Spanish as ships’ crews shouted and jostled against street costers and merchants, clerks and customs officers, the very air carrying the exotic tang of foreign ports of call.

  A wild, rowdy marketplace of buying and selling.

  The perfect place to disappear. And the perfect place to find the kind of men who’d sell their souls to join an army of Undying.

  Doran was here. Or had been recently.

  “This is where I tracked the bastard who jumped me,” Cam said. “Looks like Doran’s aware we’re not dead.” He came up behind her, his body reassuringly close. A step back would place her in the circle of his arms. She remained rigidly still until the temptation passed.

  Unfortunately, even as the thought receded, a swamp of instant nausea took its place, the street and the buildings and the sky all swaying and swimming like water on glass. The pound of magic grew to a heavy beat threatening to shake her to her knees. She put out a hand to steady herself.

  Cam was right there. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m dizzy.” She swallowed over and over. “It’s the power. Raw. Overwhelming. It’s too much.”

  “Brodie,” Cam ordered, “stay here. Take care of Morgan. I’ll be right back.”

  “No, I’m going with you,” Morgan challenged, forcing herself to straighten. “You’re not leaving me behind again.”

  Cam’s gaze was glacial. And terrifying. Even Brodie took a step back. “You swore to do exactly what I said. To follow my orders.”

  How dare he throw that back at her now? Her fingers curled into her palms, her nails digging into the flesh as she fought her urge to tell him what he could do with his bloody idiotic bargain.

  “Do you want to go back on your word?”

  “No.” She pushed the words out through tight lips.

  “Then stay here. I’m going to take a look around. I can do that better without worrying whether you’re going to collapse.”

  Before she could answer or offer any more resistance, he left her side. Passed into the street. And immediately vanished. As fully as if he’d called upon the invisibility of the feth-fiada to cloak his movements. It was impossible. And impressive.

  Brodie gave a low whistle. “Damn. He’s better than I thought.”

  Morgan kept quiet. She began to understand the toll Cam’s abilities took on his soul. She thought with sadness of the reckless boy laughing into the wind. Racing the flight of wild geese. What chain of events had pulled him into the tangled tortured world of violence, death, and murder in the king’s name? And had that boy been lost forever?

  As she watched, a man appeared from the side of the nearest building. Ground out a cheroot as he scanned the street up and down. The crackle of familiar mage energy buried itself in her brain. She’d felt this thread of power before. Had glimpsed it for a hurried moment in the alleys of Tavistock just before the street thugs attacked.

  Apparently satisfied he’d not been noticed, he entered the storefront. Banged the door shut behind him.

  “Which building did Cam go into?” Morgan asked.

  Brodie nodded. “That one, I think.”

  “That’s what I feared. Doran’s in there. Or one of his cronies. Either way, Cam’s up to his ass in trouble.”

  The man’s flicker of shock and confusion was quickly mastered, but Cam had seen it. “Surprised to see me, Rastus?”

  The corporal raised his glass, taking a long, slow drink. Time to think and react. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he kicked the chair across from him out from under the table. Nodded Cam into it. “That I am, sir. You said yourself you was tryin’ to stay under wraps. What brings you here?”

  “You know what brings me. Buchanan’s been here. And recently. Where is he now, Rastus?” Cam forced himself to remain civil, though it took every ounce of self-discipline not to lift the villain by his collar and shake the truth out of him.

  “Gone. Left a few hours ago.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t know. He came in early, snappish and impatient. Looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. A little wild, a lot dangerous, if you know what I mean.” His sidelong glance assuring Cam that he fell into that same category. “He and one of the girls went in the back. But not five minutes later, he was back. Black as a storm cloud and pulled tighter than whipcord. I followed him, for a bit. He went up toward Shadwell. And…” Rastus swallowed, his fingers rubbing nervously at a spot on the table. “And then I lost him.”

  “Why didn’t you send me word?”

  “I did. Sent a runner off an hour ago after Doran cut out. Probably passed you on your way.”

  Could they have missed the message? Could Rastus be telling the truth? Or was this a set-up? He was almost sure Rastus had hired Scar-Face to follow him yesterday. But to what purpose? He didn’t like the smell this whole deal was giving off. “What’s your game?”

  “The sergeant’s been keeping low. Moving about, ya know? He knows you’re on to him. Got him rattled, it does.” Rastus poured a second glass of claret for himself. One for Cam. “Drink up, Sin. To old times.”

  The man was tense. Not in an obvious way. But it was clear he waited for something or someone. He kept glancing toward the door, cracking his knuckles with annoying regularity until Cam actually thought of giving in to the desire to slit his throat.

  A crude comment followed by overloud laughter drew Cam’s eye to a table near the door. A group of men egged on one of their number who held a black-haired woman by the wrist with one hand, his other somewhere beneath her skirts. His face seemed familiar, dark eyes beneath thin brows, straw-colored hair. As Cam watched, the man leaned in close, his words quieter, but just as dirty by the look of shock on the girl’s face. Where had Cam seen him before? Or had he? The man’s hair, his face, his build. All were so ordinary, he’d fade into the background like wallpaper.

  “Forget this devil’s chase, Sin,�
� Rastus urged, pulling Cam’s attention back to his own table. “Walk away. This is bigger than you. Bigger than the bloody army.”

  “You know me better than that. I don’t walk away.”

  “This time, you better. Buchanan’s on to something. He’s got plans. And he’s got the strength to follow them through.”

  “Decided to join his little gang, Corporal?”

  Rastus offered him a look of shock, real or feigned impossible to distinguish. “I’m trying to save your skin. Get out. Convince your woman to get out too. It’s going to happen whether you want it or not. You can’t stop it.”

  Cam leaned forward, his gaze narrowed. “Watch me.”

  Morgan left the safety of her doorway, ignoring her unsteady steps, the way her vision blurred and darkened. Whatever Doran had accomplished here this morning, it had pulled so many differing strands of power together, just walking through the afterglow of mage energy took all her concentration.

  As she staggered, she released a seeker spell into the air. Prayed to every god she could name that Doran wasn’t near. Because if he was, how the hell was she going to stop him? And retrieve the goddess blade? Every use of Neuvarvaan drew more and more of the Morkoth magics under Doran’s control. It was going to take all her power just to survive.

  The spell returned, bringing with it the answer she’d hoped, though she knew it was a pitiful coward’s wish.

  Doran was gone.

  Which meant the sword was as well. He’d not let it out of his sight, for certain. They had Other to contend with. But those she could handle. It was the black Amhas-draoi she feared. Even as she hated her own cowardice.

  Threading her way through the crowded street, Morgan formulated and discarded plan after plan. Go in, magic blazing? Too flashy. If Doran wasn’t here, a use of her powers would certainly alert him to their intrusion. She needed to ease Cam out of the building with no one the wiser. Now that they knew where Doran was hiding, they could come up with a way to wrest the sword away. But not now. Not like this.

  She and Brodie reached the storefront. No sign hung from the broken bracket above the entrance. No way of knowing what lay beyond the grimy windows or the paint-chipped door. Brodie touched her shoulder. Jerked his head toward the side alley. “Back way in?”

  She offered him a faint smile. Followed.

  A narrow recessed door stood halfway down the alley. Locked.

  Brodie pushed in front of her. “Allow me.”

  Drawing a thin-bladed dagger from his coat, he slid the blade into the lock. A few quick twists, a muffled curse, and the door cracked open. “Voila.”

  Her smile widened. “Hidden talents.”

  He dipped his shoulder in mock humility, his eyes alight with mischief. “You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

  The corridor they entered smelled of dank river water overlaid with the even more overpowering scents of roses and lilies combined with earthy exotic musk and patchouli. Enough to make her already swimming head light. Doors lined the opposite wall, behind which sounded muffled laughter, murmured conversation, and unmistakable rhythmic grunts.

  She’d stumbled into a bloody brothel.

  Brodie raised an amused brow. Shrugged. “Do ye think Cam is…?” He gestured toward one of the doors.

  “No,” she snapped. “I do not.” He’d better not be, she amended.

  They followed the corridor to its end, where a curtain separated it from a larger room. A peek beyond revealed a sumptuous salon draped in velvets and silks. A fantasy boudoir. A sultan’s seraglio. Every effort made to put a man in the mood for sex.

  Women, dressed in the sheerest of fabrics, strolled from table to table or lounged upon couches. Their kohl-blackened eyes and hennaed skin paired with the high-waisted, low-collared gowns gave them the look of someone’s idea of Eastern concubine meets French courtesan.

  Not intended for the common sailor, the clientele here seemed made up of merchants and bankers, ship’s captains and high-paid clerks with the occasional military braid thrown in.

  “Cam’s here,” she whispered to Brodie. “Talking to someone.” She glanced around the room. Spotted the man from outside alone in a far corner. “And there’s the Other.”

  Brodie risked a look. “We need to let Cam know.”

  Morgan bit her lip, mind made up. “You get back outside. Keep the alley clear for our escape. I’ll get Cam’s attention.”

  “You’re not exactly dressed like the rest of them.”

  She withdrew farther down the corridor. Stopped at a door. Listened.

  Empty.

  “I will be.”

  Cam looked up from the table to see a walking fantasy coming toward him. Red-gold hair loose in a heavy wave to the small of her back. A gown that must have been painted on, doing absolutely nothing to hide long, slender legs that seemed to go on forever. A sweet round ass. High, firm breasts. Both perfect handfuls and then some. He should know. He’d held them both only last night.

  She approached, her gaze centered on him with eyes a man could drown in. Leaned in close to brush a kiss against his cheek, give him a bird’s-eye view of all that could be his. For a price.

  “Here, now, no one’s asked for a poke.” Rastus shooed her away. “We’re doing business. Tell Molly we want to be left alone.”

  “It’s all right. While I’m here, I may as well…” Cam let his gaze devour her. She was living, breathing desire.

  And pale as a ghost.

  But mayhap only he noticed the way her hands trembled, the unsteadiness of her gait “…I may as well enjoy my visit. Right?”

  Rastus stiffened. Obviously unsure whether to let Cam leave with the whore or not. Finally, he shrugged. “Ride her all ya want. You can afford it.”

  “Expensive, is she?”

  “Mrs. Molly Cabot’s not in it for the good of mankind, I can tell ya that. She’s made herself a tidy fortune runnin’ this place.”

  “I’ll be back.” Cam stood, pulling the prostitute in close. Letting her feel the hard ache of his erection, the anger in his grip.

  Her eyes widened as she motioned toward a curtained doorway.

  “I’m not through with you,” Cam tossed back at the corporal as he eased away from the table. Across the floor under the scrutinizing, suspicious eyes of the other women. The resentful eyes of their customers.

  How dare she show so much of herself to this crowd of lechers? Let them ogle her as if she were no better than the women who worked here?

  Possessiveness and—yes, damn it—simple jealousy lanced through him. Only he got to look at her like that. She belonged to him. His grip tightened.

  She led him through the curtain. Dropped it in place behind them, leaning hard against the wall. Breathing heavily. “So far, so good.”

  Cam rounded on her, fury blazing. “What the hell are you doing here, Morgan? And dressed like…like a bad version of the sultan’s favorite.”

  She sniffed. “I thought my disguise worked out rather well.”

  “I just bet you did. You’re about as inconspicuous as a swan among a roost of biddy hens. And every person in there knew it.”

  She looked surprised. “Really? That good?”

  He shook his head, trying to gain some perspective. Some distance. Hard to do when she stood inches away from him in a gown that left enough to the imagination to make a man want to uncover the rest. Unwrap her like a gift. “You didn’t dress like that for your health. What’s going on?”

  “One of Doran’s goons. I recognized him outside. He’s here.”

  “A redhead?” A voice sounded loud from the far side of the curtain. “I don’t have any redheads here. The customers don’t like them.”

  Morgan grabbed his hand. “This way.” She pulled him down the corridor.

  A man stepped from the shadows at the far end. Saw them coming.

  “It’s him.” She stumbled back. Looked wildly around, her hand in his clutching him in a death grip. Unable to go forward or back, she stiffen
ed. Stepped up to the closest door. Inhaled sharply before turning the knob and dragging him inside.

  Thank the gods, it was empty. What she’d have done if the room had been occupied, she’d no idea. In fact, she was pretty much out of ideas. Caught between the brothel’s abbess and the advancing Other, they’d run out of options.

  She couldn’t think. Her head felt stuffed with wool, her limbs dragging. Neuvarvaan’s effect wore off, but not near quick enough.

  She was so far in over her head, it was laughable. Talk about the foul-up of all foul-ups. What had Scathach been thinking, entrusting Morgan with this task? It was obvious she couldn’t do it. She’d bungled every step of this whole sad excuse of a mission.

  “Was seducing me part of your plan?” Cam asked, dipping his head toward the silk-hung bed dominating the tiny cubby of a room, the enormous mirror on the far wall. How could he joke at a time like this?

  “I’m making this up as I go,” she shot back.

  “Really? I’d never have figured that out.” Now he definitely looked amused, damn him.

  “So what’s your big idea?” she snapped. Hating his smug superiority. Hating her helplessness. Hating the way he eyed her like a starving man eyes a meal. Hating the way she enjoyed it.

  “First things first,” he growled.

  Without warning, he flung her down on the bed. Fell on top of her, fisting his hands in her hair, forcing her head back as he covered her mouth in a violent kiss of domination, his hand molding itself to her breast, his knee forcing her thighs apart as if he planned on dragging her skirts up around her waist and pushing himself inside her right here and now.

  And if he did, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stop him. Her body seemed to have divorced itself from her brain. It welcomed his touch. Ached for it. A traitorous whimper of pleasure escaped her. They’d be caught. Revealed. But instead of embarrassment, that threat of discovery heightened her already dizzy senses. Somehow her hands ended up in his hair, her tongue in his mouth, her hand sliding downward to cup the hard bulge in his breeches. Oh yes. He might not actually mount her, but he certainly wanted to. A heady rush of power infused her panic.